


The Story told by the Rain

by Mija



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 02:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7416970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mija/pseuds/Mija
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time a change affecting both Mrs Hudson and Sherlock’s lives is about to come, it’s raining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story told by the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> English isn’t my first language, which is why this story might contain some mistakes. If you spot any, feel free to let me know – after all, I’m here to improve my English!

When she met Sherlock Holmes for the first time, it was raining.

She was hurrying through the streets of Orlando, her head ducked between her shoulders and the plastic bag containing her shopping pressed tightly against her chest. Cold dampness had found its way under her jacket long ago, and she was cursing herself for declining Frank’s offer to give her a ride.

With every step she took in the merciless rain that was so typical for the tropical climate, the prospect of escaping the fierceness of nature in a convenient car seemed more tempting – only the memory of _why_ she hadn’t agreed to Frank’s offer prevented her from sliding further into self-pity mode.

Frank would already be waiting for her at home. The way back from the supermarket was the only time she could get to arrange her thoughts – and to bring some distance between herself and the man of whom she’d once thought that she loved him. She should finally talk to him, tell him that she couldn’t cover up for him any longer; maybe not today, but tomorrow, or ...

A sudden blow ended this particularly unpleasant line of thought. The next thing she knew was that her bag was now lying on the ground and that she was clinging to the fence next to her in a desperate attempt to keep her balance.

The young man who had surprisingly come around the corner and crashed into her in great haste managed to regain his balance before she did.

“Oh, excuse me,” he mumbled, reaching down for her bag and handing it over to her. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t sound like he was interested in an honest answer, more like he was keen on getting something very annoying over and done with as quickly as possible. Mrs Hudson didn’t care; it was his voice that caught her attention, not his words. She immediately recognised the English accent and her heart clenched up longingly. _England. The soft noise of the London traffic, the green hills of Sussex. Consistent rain, less dangerous and much more familiar than the rain of Florida. Home_.

Maybe it was the accent that made her spend a second glance at the stranger, a more thorough glance than she usually spared for people who ran her down on her way home.

She was studying him as intently as she dared. He must have been in his mid-twenties; he had a thin, pale face and startling bright eyes. Unlike her, he hadn’t pulled his hood over his head, and the rain made his dark hair curl even more. He was wearing a pair of jeans and an outdoor jacket – nondescript clothes – and he could have been a normal pedestrian in the rainy streets of Orlando ... if it hadn’t been for his undeniable charisma and for the look in his eyes.

“I’m fine, young man,” she assured him. Her jollity felt like the complete opposite of the young man’s cool bearing; he seemed like he’d rather have been somewhere else, preferably without her company. “Thank you for asking. Are _you_ alright?”

He responded with curt nod. The movement caused a strand of his wet hair to fall into his eyes, and he swept it away impatiently.

“You seem to be tired. Are you sure you’re okay?”

It was all but a rhetorical question, as she could see at a first glance that this man wasn’t in good shape, neither physically nor mentally. For Heaven’s sake, her husband was running a drug cartel – she knew a junkie when she saw one. And she knew when it was too late for a junkie to be saved, when he was irreversibly caught in a downward spiral. It wasn’t too late for _this_ man, at least that’s what her intuition told her.

Following a spontaneous idea, she offered him her free hand. The man hesitated, and when he accepted the gesture, he let go again so quickly that you could have thought the touch had burned his skin.

“I’m Martha Hudson,” she introduced herself, smiling. She wasn’t sure why, but there was something she liked about that man.

“Sherlock,” he mumbled, and that was all she needed to know. You didn’t ask a junkie about his background, but you could offer him help. Whether or not he accepted that help, was beyond her control.

“I’m living just around the corner.” She gave him her address without cherishing more than a faint hope that he’d actually remember it – but you never knew. “You look like you could use a decent meal. If you feel like having one, feel free to pay me a visit.”

He wouldn’t have been the first one she gave a free meal. Frank used to tell her that her soft heart would get her killed one day, and perhaps he had a point. Perhaps she’d someday meet someone who’d exploit her good intentions. Before that day came, however, she was determined to make up for the injustice her husband brought into this world by trying to help everyone who was willing to be helped.

Conspiratorially, she bent closer to the young man – _Sherlock_ –, ignoring his wince.

“Of course, you can also visit me if you just want to talk.”

“Why should I want to talk to you?” He sounded disdainful, which didn’t stop her. She knew that kind of behaviour, although she could feel that there was something _different_ about Sherlock, something not quite graspable.

“One never knows. Everybody needs someone who listens to them now and then,” she said.

Sherlock was eyeing her warily. Then, after a few endless moments, he nodded, barely noticeably.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said as neutrally as possible. Before she could add anything else, he stepped around her with a mumbled excuse and disappeared into the rain without looking at her again.

Mrs Hudson was staring after him, involuntarily wondering why fate always led the most extraordinary people on the roughest paths.

 

* * *

 

When she met Sherlock for the second time, it was raining.

Two weeks had passed since their first encounter and she hadn’t expected him to accept her offer after all. Some people did and found her to be an open-minded, sympathetic listener, others never showed up. There was no clear system, no obvious rules; it was simply another example of the ordinary run of things, and she’d got used to it long ago.

The doorbell rang while she was busy cutting steaks for dinner (she hated those things, but Frank loved them, so what else was she supposed to do?). She put the knife away hastily, washed her hands and hurried towards the door as quickly as her aching hip allowed her, expecting to be about to face one of Frank’s sidekicks. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

A wave of relief washed over her when she regonised her visitor. Instead of a dodgy fellow from a dubious milieu, a young man was standing in front of the door – both a stranger and, at the same time, a familiar-looking person. Although she hadn’t dared to hope to ever see him again, she’d wished for it all the more, if just to hear the familiar English accent.

“Oh, hello, Sherlock!” she greeted him friendly, stepping aside to let him in.

He hesitated before crossing the doorstep and taking off his wet jacket. “Mrs Hudson,” he replied curtly, and she was pleased to see that he had cared enough to remember both her address and her name. (Well, to be fair, it wasn’t a particularly uncommon name.)

She beckoned him over to her kitchen, trusting once again in her steadfast belief that the young man she’d given access to her house wasn’t a potential robber, hostage-taker or murderer. Although she was quite agile for her age, she was, unfortunately, past her prime and she wouldn’t have stood a chance against Sherlock, nor against _any_ of her visitors. Until now, her knowledge of human nature had never failed her, and she doubted that her recent guest would be the first one to harm her.

“Come in, my dear,” she said. “My husband’s not at home, fortunately.”

Any other person would have concentrated on the last sentence, would have picked up on the word “fortunately” in a sensation-seeking manner; but Sherlock merely frowned.

“Don’t call me that,” he demanded disapprovingly.

Mrs Hudson smiled at him. “If you insist ...”

She’d respect his wish, of course, just like she always respected her visitors’ need for carefully kept distance, even if it was never easy for her to turn off her motherly instincts. There was something about this young man that urged her to call him “my dear”.

After offering him a chair at the kitchen table, she thought about her visitor’s past while preparing two cups of tea. She wouldn’t ask him about it, she never did, but certain assumptions about her guests’ background stories could never be kept down completely. How much did it take until somebody ended up solving or at least escaping their problems through cocaine?

Perhaps Sherlock had had a difficult childhood, perhaps his parents had never cared about him enough, perhaps he wasn’t used to terms of endearment; or perhaps he was just one of those people who have a hard time dealing with the world and with themselves without an obvious reason.

She waited until the tea was ready before trying to make him open up a little bit. She settled into the chair opposite to him with her own cup in one hand and a plate filled with homemade biscuits in the other, pushing the plate to the middle of the table. It didn’t surprise her that Sherlock didn’t touch them and sipped at his tea only reluctantly.

“You and your husband don’t get along very well,” he stated abruptly. “You once loved him, but you keep thinking more and more that leaving London for his sake was the wrong decision. You’re ashamed of his criminality and you’re even scared of him. He hasn’t harmed you yet, at least not directly, but you know that he could get you out of the way quite easily, just like he does with people who endanger the future of his drug cartel.”

Mrs Hudson was staring at him, her cup of tea raised halfway to her mouth. Her hand started trembling, and she slowly put the cup down again.

“How do you know that?” she asked, shocked.

Sherlock leaned back, the ghost of a satisfied smile appearing on his lips – and then he went into full-blown deduction mode, rattling off a deduction that left Mrs Hudson overwhelmed and with her jaw dropped.

Oh yes, she’d known right away that this man was special.

“You ... you’re right,” she admitted as soon as she’d regained her equilibrium.

“Of course I am,” he said smugly, regarding her with slightly narrowed eyes; and she couldn’t help but wonder what other insights his observations – and, possibly, his research – had brought him. “Your husband is a criminal and a danger to the world at large. Why don’t you leave him? You know exactly how he makes his living, you’ve been aware of it for a long time.”

Mrs Hudson met his intense gaze, openly and without bothering to conceal her despair. What had been planned to be a help for a – as it turned out – not quite helpless junkie had unexpectedly morphed into a help for _her_ – a kind of therapy session in which she was telling a complete stranger about the problems that had been tormenting her for so long.

Yes, this boy _was_ special.

“That’s right,” she said with a resignation that had been piled up over the years. “But it’s not that easy. We’ve been married for so long, I can’t ...” She heaved a sigh. She’d gone through it in her head over and over, through all the possibilities, all the necessities; and she doubted that anything she entrusted Sherlock with would be news to him. She preferred not to think about what else he’d probably deduced about her already. “And even, if I ... I mean, who’d believe an old, crazy lady like me?”

Sherlock folded his hands beneath his chin, bending forward. “You’d like your husband to receive the punishment he deserves?”

Mrs Hudson bowed her head. It seemed more than odd, sitting in her kitchen with a stranger and discussing her husband’s crimes – but at the same time, it didn’t necessarily feel wrong.

“It’s not easy ... he’s my husband, after all. But actually ... actually he does deserve a punishment.” And _yes_ , he did. For everything he’d done to innocent (and maybe less innocent) people; for the sorrow he’d caused her ever since they’d moved to Florida. “But musing about it is useless. It won’t happen.”

The satisfied smile returned to his face – this time, with full intensity. “I know someone who might be able to help you.”

 

* * *

 

When she met Sherlock for the next time, it was raining.

Mrs Hudson hadn’t expected to see him again and she was all the more delighted when she did: somehow, unexpectedly and inexplicably, she’d come to like that young man, and his rather unfriendly demeanour provoked long-forgotten maternal feelings. The more he retreated into his shell, the more she felt the need to make a fuss about him. His latest visit wasn’t an exception, although years had passed since they’d seen each other for the last time.

Still, that stubborn young man occupied a special place in her heart, not only because he’d helped her endure the rather annoying business about her lovely husband.

“Sherlock, how nice to see you!” she exclaimed, hugging him in front of the door. He stiffened under her touch, but he didn’t push her away.

She pulled him inside, helped him take off his wet cloak and eyed him inconspicuously while she led the way to the kitchen. He looked good: He wasn’t as thin as he’d used to be, someone had provided him with a decent haircut and he was wearing more elegant clothes – a long way from the lanky junkie she’d once picked up on the streets. Another short glance told her that he was clean, at least for the moment.

“I really didn’t expect to see you again,” she told him, rather unnecessarily. “I didn’t know you were in London.”

He shrugged, regarding the wallpaper in disdain; but thankfully, he refrained from commenting on her quite special taste. (Of course, she’d think in retrospect, he was smart enough to know when it could be dangerous to insult other people, especially when you were about to ask those people for a flat.)

She forced him to at least drink a cup of tea before she asked him about his wishes. Men like him didn’t drop by out of sheer sentimentality; men like him _always_ had valid reasons. He didn’t speak much, only told her something about an _urgent business_ before steering the conversation in a more convenient direction.

“You’re living alone?”

She didn’t ask how he knew, only gave him a smile and a short nod. Sherlock had a talent of always picking up on the little things that distressed her; the fact that she was living alone in the big house had indeed been bothering her for quite a while. She wasn’t exactly the type to be easily scared, but ...

_“It’s about time you found someone to rent the flat,”_ Mrs Turner had told her only yesterday, and not for the first time. _“You, all alone in the house – that’s too dangerous, dear. I’m lucky, I’ve got my boys, they help me feel safe.”_

Mrs Hudson knew that her friend was right, but the search for a suitable candidate wasn’t easy. After all, she didn’t want to have any random person in her flat – there had to be a special chemistry between her and a possible lodger, anything else was out of question.

Once again, Sherlock seemed to be reading her thoughts. He firmly looked at her with the both amiable and sly smile she knew all too well by now.

“I heard that you are looking for a lodger for your empty flat.”

 

* * *

 

When they brought her the news about Sherlock’s death, it was raining.

Gentle rainfall had turned into persistent, heavy rainfall, and both John Watson and Greg Lestrade were soaked to the skin by the time Mrs Hudson opened the door.

Drops of water trickled from their clothes in regular intervals, forming puddles on the carefully cleaned floorboard, but Mrs Hudson didn’t have the heart to chide the men for ruining her work.

She didn’t need to see the blank expressions on their faces and the bowed shoulders to know that something unspeakable had happened.

“John? What’s wrong?” she asked urgently.

He didn’t seem to hear her; without looking at her, he stepped around her with mechanical movements, and when she tried to put a hand on his shoulder, he all but escaped her touch and slowly started to climb the stairs. Each of his laboured steps made her heart clench up a little more.

“Detective Inspector,” she whispered. “What happened? Where’s Sherlock?”

Lestrade looked down. Mrs Hudson wasn’t sure whether the dampness on his cheeks had been caused by the rain or by tears.

She knew it before he could tell her.

“Sherlock’s dead.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t raining when Sherlock returned.

He became part of her life again in the same way he’d entered it long ago: suddenly and when you were least expecting it.

Perhaps she wasn’t expecting it because, this particular day, it wasn’t raining. Rain had always used to form an important part of her relationship to Sherlock; it had _always_ been raining when a change was about to come, a change that affected both her and Sherlock’s lives.

Their first encounter, his apparent death, the years in between ... rain, always rain. Sometimes gentle, sometimes stormy, sometimes unpleasant, sometimes welcome ... but it had been raining _every single time_.

So when Sherlock entered her kitchen just as if nothing had happened, when Mrs Hudson screamed loudly enough to wake the dead, and when it wasn’t raining outside, it felt like an omen.


End file.
